


Dum Spiro Spero

by takaraikarin



Series: The Reincarnation Safe House AU [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Spooks | MI-5, The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Crossover, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Psychological Trauma, References to Torture, Sexual Content, Thilbo, Vague descriptions of torture, Wherein our burglar is a military doctor, and our king is a spy for the MI-5, bagginshiled - Freeform, early series Lucas, no detailed knowledge of Spooks canon necessary, vague mentions of violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 05:17:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takaraikarin/pseuds/takaraikarin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>re·in·car·na·tion</i><br/><i>noun \ˌrē-(ˌ)in-(ˌ)kär-ˈnā-shən\</i><br/><i>1.</i><br/><i>a : the action of reincarnating : the state of being reincarnated</i><br/><i>b : rebirth in new bodies or forms of life; especially : a rebirth of a soul in a new human body</i> <br/><i>2.</i><br/><i>: a fresh embodiment</i></p><p> </p><p>Wherein they met again, in a different time and place, and what should one do with thousands of years worth of longing?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. As I Live, I Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had this reincarnation bunny that won't go away, of Lucas North and John Watson together. I've tried prompting to the kinkmeme, but nobody took the prompt, and since the bunny just would. not. give me peace of mind, I decided to write this myself. 
> 
> Somebody with better writing skills than I do should totally take this bunny off of my hands, though :P
> 
> This is based off earlier Lucas, when he just got back from Russia, so detailed knowledge of Spooks canon is not necessary. I just want to put John and Lucas in the same situation, and who better to help my plot device than Mycroft? Heh. 
> 
> Anyway. Hope people like this. Please do drop me a line and tell me what you think <3

Prompt:

  
_Then we stop to gather the pieces again. To love  
the pieces as they are, scattered all around us._

_But look at how we have been tempered,  
the selves that wanted and kept wanting-_

_they just ask for more of the same now._

_Let us not give the years too much credit_  
for how far we’ve come,  
for what we have become. 

_**Cyril Wong - The Lovers Fall Like Stones Back Onto the Ground** _  


**Bilbo:**

If anyone ever asked, John would blame this whole situation on the dreams.

John dreamt about a war sometimes. Not _the_ war. Another war. Where he saw mountains piercing high through the sky instead of deserts. There were trees there and all-engulfing flames that he never seemed to be able to stare much. The flames made him shiver despite the scorching heat, like there’s darkness within it and John always felt like he’s going to be swallowed whole if he stared too long.

He always felt like he’d started falling into the flames in these dreams, but startling blue eyes entered his vision each time and he’s drawn towards them instead. Drowning now, instead of flaming. 

He woke up gasping like he did from his other nightmares, but these kinds of dreams rattled him in quite a different way than his Afghanistan dreams. It always felt like he’s unsettled. Like he put on his skin the wrong way when he woke up. Putting on clothes, shoes, made him uneasy still, like they weren’t his. If he looked in the mirror, everything from the tidy trim of his hair to the shade of his eyes looked _wrong_. When he looked out of the window he absurdly longed for clear blue sky and green, rolling hills. 

John barely ever seen green, rolling hills. To long for them made him feel like he’s losing his mind. Instead of making him nervous and jittery like his Afghanistan dreams, these war dreams made him feel like he’s not even himself. 

On such disconcerting mornings, the last thing he wanted to see as he went down the stairs was Mycroft Holmes. But at that moment, even Mycroft was beside the point.

Standing near the fireplace, gaze scanning the living room like he’s cataloguing the environment, was a tall, dark-haired man John had never seen. But the man turned as he heard him coming down and the startling blue eyes that trained themselves on John’s own were eerily familiar. 

John could feel something lodging in his throat, making him feel even less like himself, his feet felt disjointed, unlike his own, like he’d misstep and topple over any minute now. John was certain Mycroft could see his discomfort, though he’d probably chalked it to his psychosomatic limp. Not that Mycroft would care, he probably saw the weakened state John’s in and thought it a good chance to make him agreeable to his little Plan. 

He called it a little Plan, of protecting John while his men were credibly certain that John’s life was wanted, and John could hear the capital letter when he said it. 

It was a ludicrous plan anyway. 

‘No.’

‘John.’ The look Mycroft sent him would’ve been patronizing for a five year old let alone a grown person. ‘I’ve not finished explaining.’

‘I don’t need you to.’

‘It wouldn’t be right by Sherlock if I don’t at least try to help,’ and there it was, the trump card, whipped out as if it was nothing. Mycroft didn’t even change his posture once, leaning against his umbrella as he was because John hadn’t offered him and the quiet man standing by the fireplace to sit. 

‘Couldn’t you do that by keeping an eye on me? You’re already doing that anyway,’ John’s eyes reluctantly left the unknown man’s and trained warily on Mycroft’s. There’s a headache starting to throb on his temple and John couldn’t believe he’d have to talk his way out of Mycroft springing his Plan on him out of nowhere. 

‘I’m afraid doing that here takes too much manpower that are greatly needed elsewhere,’ Mycroft started. ‘Surely you don’t want to keep superfluously spending taxpayer money on keeping yourself safe?’

‘Then let me fend for myself.’ John said through gritted teeth. ‘I don’t even know anything, why would anybody still be after me? He’s gone!’ John didn’t need to elaborate the subject, Mycroft’s face hardened all the same. 

‘For these people, that hardly matters,’ the dark-haired man said, his voice rumbling out of him like a physical touch, snapping John’s focus straight to him, and even _that_ felt eerily familiar. ‘Even if by the slightest chance you would know something of interest to them, they will take it. They’ve hardly anything to lose, and the current power behind them is patient. Thorough.’ 

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ John looked at Mycroft. The man sighed, sparing a glance at the unknown man as if he’d rather not tell. 

‘Let’s just say Moriarty’s people aren’t your only concern right now. They’ve… made friends. Troublesome ones.’ 

‘Unrest is at hand. This is why it would be best for us all for you to be in the safe house, Dr. Watson. You’ll be assigned security details. And Mr. North here will assure my peace of mind while the rest of my men can concentrate on dealing with the… complications.’ 

Without thinking, John’s eyes were already trained back to the man Mycroft called North. He was walking closer now, and John had to crane his neck to look at him as he came near John to hold out his hand ‘Lucas North. At your service.’ 

A shiver ran down John’s spine at those words as he shook the man’s hand, and he blamed that, and the dreams, and Lucas North’s startlingly familiar blue eyes as the reasons he agreed to Mycroft’s Plan. 

It was a daft plan, but John was even dafter for agreeing to it.

-

 

**Thorin:**

The place they refer to as the solitary confinement was a dark, freezing place, exactly five by five meters in width—he knew, he’d counted them in an attempt not to lose his mind—and no matter how he tried, Lucas always lost the sense of time in there. They kept him fed, but only barely, and dehydration was a favorite form of interrogation of one of the officers. 

In those uncounted days he’d spent in the room, the world seemed to shrunk in size until it’s only him in that room, everything else vanishing, forgotten by him and forgetting his existence. He couldn’t differentiate the nights and days, as he spent most of the time huddled against a wall, his back plastered to the heating pipe lining the one wall. He fingers were still blue and his teeth would even clatter sometimes, but the feel of warmth, faint as it was, against his skin was sometimes the only thing reminding him he’s still alive. 

He’d forgotten what his captors wanted from him. He’d forgotten the secrets his interrogators wanted him to spill, let alone the reasons why he shouldn’t spill them. 

One of said interrogators, Zuyev—he introduced himself formally the first time he went down to Lucas’s cell, said he liked to be familiar with the people he's assigned to before messing with their heads—wore a gold-plated watch around his left wrist, and Lucas saw his own reflection on it once. He didn’t recognize the bearded man with hooded eyes that stared back at him. He didn’t look like himself. There was something else different about the man, Lucas could sense it once he stopped trying to reconcile the man with his image of himself. Could see that the man carried himself differently than him. He sat straighter in the uncomfortable folding chair of the interrogation room, his eyes sedately assessing. 

A smirk bloomed on Zuyev’s lips, ugly and eager. ‘Ah. So I get to meet the other Lucas again, today.’ 

Lucas realized it was the man Zuyev referred as the other him that sat with his back ramrod straight like that. His chin was held higher, and his gaze when he assessed the whole room as if he’s assessing a battlefield was calm and intelligent. Lucas could practically saw it himself. The other man was unbroken. 

He withdrew into himself and found strength from the other man. There was a determination in him, settling warm in his stomach like ember, of conviction in himself again.

It was with the other man in his head that Lucas started believing that maybe, just maybe, he’ll find a way home after all. It was the other man that made him thought he could do anything, even double-cross the man soon to be the FSB’s head of operation in London, Arkady Kachimov, while looking at him straight in the eye. When Kachimov gave him the offer of spying for them, it was the other him that said ‘yes,’ his voice in a different timbre from his normal one. 

It was paved in blood, but he’d found his way home. 

-

Lucas knew that Harry, though a fair boss in general, was really quite hardline when it comes to some things. Those things, apparently, included his debriefings and readjustment after Moscow. It was a whole week until he was allowed to set foot in the Thames House again. He wondered if Harry was still ticked off about the whole mess with Kachimov in London, even though as far as Lucas was concerned it was wrapped up pretty tidily, bow and all. Even Ros agreed with him. 

But Harry made him stayed in his own safe house, stewing by day and chasing shadows by night. Though at least at night he could relax and curled into himself, letting the other him take control of his much too active mind. 

By the end of the week, his psych evaluation turned out normal. Ros looked at him with a raised eyebrow, because eight years in a Russian prison should leave its marks on you deeper than that, but Lucas knew it was the other man that had kept him sane. When he reached out to him, there seemed to be determination and strength in abundance within him. It was liberating. 

Which was why it unnerved him that they still won’t let him go down to the field. What good can he do to the MI-5 if he sits behind a desk pushing papers? When Harry—brows in a tight furrow after coming out of an appointment with the elusive Mycroft Holmes—approached him about the special assignment, Lucas couldn’t agree to it fast enough. 

Of course, he’d still be stuck in another safe house, this time in a house in the middle of a nondescript-enough British country side, and it looked rather Dickensian, all this considered. But he’d be on a job and not stewing over his own demons. That was already a major improvement for him.

The man he and his team—although he was the only one actually stationed inside the house—were supposed to protect was almost as non-descript as their location, and Lucas spent quite some time each day searching around for connections and possibilities that made Dr. John Watson a valuable enough person that Mycroft Holmes himself requested this security measure to the MI-5. Things were getting messier now that they’ve learned the man after John Watson’s life was in contact with the FSB’s new head man in London, and when it comes to the FSB, Lucas was one of the best. And Mycroft Holmes wanted the best. 

-

Sharing the house with Dr. Watson was easy enough. Being the ex-military man that he was, he’s tidy and self-sufficient, and he mostly kept to himself. They wordlessly took the bedrooms on the two corners of the second floor—for optimum vantage point if they need to scan the area. On mornings he ate the breakfast that Lucas cook with a thank you and appropriate appreciation—nothing superfluous—and Lucas accepted the tea he brew with a thank you in return. They fell into a simple routine where Lucas would spend most times glued to his computer, keeping track of activities from informants and the rest of the time he’d maintain a steady work out schedule to keep his mind and body alert. He and Dr. Watson left each other be as he stayed on his side of the house and Lucas on his own side.

Sometimes the man would look at him with a faraway look in his eyes and it’d always seemed like he wanted to say something to him, but always in the end he kept the words inside. From the look on his face, Lucas sure it was something gravely important, though his instinct told him it had nothing to do with Mycroft Holmes and the FSB. It would probably take some time for him to spill it out, Lucas had seen every single piece of paper produced with John Watson’s name on it, and he’d seen the notes his psychologist wrote on the doctor’s trust issue. 

He barely had time to ponder upon that lately though, as he’s been barely getting enough sleep, surveilling increased activity from the FSB. He made Malcolm ran every intercepted messages through him, analyzing every encrypted messages looking for the red thread connecting it all. Especially the thread that connected the whole activity to the FSB’s perceived nervousness that Dr. John Watson had gone off the radar. Somebody very high up thought he knew something they wanted. But Lucas hasn’t figured out what exactly that they wanted. 

A dull throbbing started in his head as he looked up at the clock. Two-twenty-five. He’s been staying in front of his laptop for more than twelve hours now. No wonder his eyes felt prickly and he’s developing a headache. Any minute now, Dr. Watson would come down to the kitchen and drink a glass of water. It seemed like his sleeps uneasy. 

Lucas rested his head back against the chair’s headrest and could feel the other him slowly coming to the surface, like a great bear waking up contently from a deep sleep. It happened more often than not now when he’s exhausted, the other him preventing his mind from chasing convoluted thoughts around in his own head until he’s frayed around the edges and instead took control of his consciousness, grounding him. He let the man woke up fully and when his body rose from the chair, he was already carrying himself differently. 

The tinkling sound of glasses from the kitchen piqued the other man’s interest and he made his way to the source of the sound. 

Dr. Watson stood in the middle of the kitchen in his bathrobe, a glass of water in his hand. He noticed the presence of another person in the room and turned around to greet them.

‘Oh, you’re still awake—’

His words seemed to have caught in his throat as he took in the view of the not-Lucas in front of him, his body visibly shaking, so much so that the glass slipped out of his grasp and shattered on the floor. The other Lucas himself had froze when John Watson turned around, looking at him with knowing eyes. Lucas, curling in on himself inside his mind, barely noticed the jolt of familiarity in his gut. The other man seemed transfixed on the man’s face, as much as John Watson’s shaking form was still transfixed on him. There was familiarity in his hazel eyes, accompanied by a peculiar gaze that looked similar to longing. 

Whatever it was, it seemed to be the answer that the other Lucas was looking for, and with easy strides he was already standing in front of Dr. Watson. Painfully, as if he might break, the other man guided Lucas’s hands to cradle Dr. Watson’s face. 

‘ _…Bashag?_ ’ the voice that wasn’t Lucas’s own grounded out. Dr. Watson seemed to physically melted with that, a soft whimper escaping his parted mouth. 

It was all the other man needed before he bent down and captured Dr. Watson’s mouth in a kiss. Their movements were slow, familiar, but heated, and Dr. Watson opened up under him delightfully. The other man licked his way into the warm inviting mouth as if he wanted to come out of Lucas’s body and burrowed himself into Dr. Watson's instead. The kiss turned open-mouthed and sensuous, tongues traveling back and forth, and it was such a nice kiss, one he hasn’t had in a while, that it took an embarrassingly long time for Lucas to realize where he was, and what exactly his body was doing. 

When he came back into himself, his stance changed, and Dr. Watson seemed to notice that. When he pulled back, gasping, and saw Lucas in front of him, his eyes widened, and tiny miniscule tremor started again along his fingers. 

‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t hav—’

‘I’m going back to bed,’ the doctor said, and Lucas had nothing to say to that as he made his way hurriedly back upstairs. Lucas rubbed his face, couldn’t believe what had just happened—couldn’t believe how _good_ it had felt—and collapsed his body onto the sofa. He was too sleep-deprived to deal with this right then; it’d just have to wait until morning. 

Except, he didn’t get to speak—or even tentatively tried to—the next morning and the morning after that. The last encrypted message intercepted by their people in Kazan, Malcolm needed Lucas’s help deciphering it, so Ben was assigned to the safe house in his stead temporarily. 

It wasn’t until the third night that Lucas came back to the safe house and although the temporary break into the real world was welcomed, the amount of stress that came from such sensitive information didn’t help with his exhausted body. He arrived back at the safe house at eleven-fifty-two and wanted nothing more than to lie down on the floor somewhere and be dead to the world. 

But that was when he heard soft whimpers from behind a closed door. Dr. Watson’s room. Lucas stood in front of his door and barely debated with himself before he pushed the door silently open. 

Dr. Watson was trashing on his bed and whimpering. There were tremors running down the length of his body. The last time Lucas saw somebody acting that way, the person was on fire.

On fire. That was what Dr. Watson’s convulsing body looked like. 

Lucas crossed the room quickly and grabbed the man’s shoulder, trying to shake him awake. The whimpers started anew, and he sounded in pain. Without thinking, Lucas gathered the smaller body into his arms and rocked him like he would a child, shushing in his ear. 

The doctor calmed down after a while, and Lucas can sense the moment he woke up completely, as for a split second his body went taut again. Lucas continued shushing in his ear and the body in his arms relaxed again. When he pulled back slightly to look into the man’s eyes, to ask if he was alright, in a flash Lucas felt the other him pushing forward, as if he too was worried about the doctor. John Watson apparently saw that flash of foreign gaze in his eyes, as he whimpered softly again like last time. And this time it was Lucas’s resolve that crumbled as he bent down and fastened his lips on John Watson’s already parted ones. 

It felt a bit different, kissing him as opposed to feeling it when the other him kissed the smaller man. He could taste toothpaste and tea and an earthy taste that he’d later identify as John Watson in the man’s mouth, and it felt more heady and intoxicating. He could feel the tremors in John’s body subsiding little by little as he chased the demons away with every teasing nips and licks. When they pulled back they were both breathing heavily, looking at each other with glazed eyes. Lucas felt a weird sensation like he wasn’t the only one peering through his eyes to gaze into John’s pleasingly flushed face. Like the other him was right there with him, looking in awe. 

‘Feel better?’ Lucas ventured to ask.

John chuckled at that. ‘Much, thank you,’

Lucas still held the man his arms, and his hand was still making soothing circling on his back. He gently gestured to the door. ‘Should I go?’

‘Can you…’ John seemed to steel himself and looked him square in the eyes when he asked, ‘can you stay?’ 

‘Of course,’ 

John guided him down into the bed, body still cradled against Lucas’s own, and for the first time in too long a time, Lucas felt like he could easily fall asleep in the bed.

‘Why does it feel like I’ve known you from long ago?’ John whispered against his collarbone. Something constricted in Lucas’s chest, something that made him realized he felt the same way about the man. But he was too content in that moment to analyze it further. Even the other Lucas inside him seemed to curl satisfactorily inside himself, radiating contentment enough to engulf the both of them.

Lucas wondered if he’s dreaming already when he drifted off to sleep with a whisper of _‘my King…’_ against his chest.

 

**End Part One.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Bashag_ : Halfling (in Khuzdul)
> 
> Written for the 30-Days Drabble Challenge for the prompt above. For banners (and yummy tattoos) go [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/770442)


	2. Gnothi Seauton

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to their respective owners. I make no claims of ownership and am merely just playing with them.
> 
> Betaed by the lovely [Steerpike13713](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Steerpike13713/pseuds/Steerpike13713) ❤

**Prompt:**

_But look at how we have been tempered,  
the selves that wanted and kept wanting-_

_they just ask for more of the same now.  
 **Cyril Wong - The Lovers Fall Like Stones Back Onto the Ground**_

**Bilbo:**

John had started opening his laptop up every morning again. At first out of habit more than anything else. Besides, there was also the slightly pesky problem of trying not to be bored out of his mind inside the safe house. 

He didn’t realized how he was mostly just functioning on adrenaline, those handful of months leading to that fateful day outside of St. Barts. After that, he felt he was just running on empty. Merely a functioning body as opposed to a functioning human being. He wondered what Sherlock would’ve thought of him ambling along like he’s just another part of the dull masses. The detective would’ve probably sneered and condescended him until he’s up on his feet again, ready for action. 

Being in the safe house was the first chance John could get to sit down and rearranged the convoluted tangle that was the inside of his head. He had much time on his hands there, so he opened up his laptop to try and see if writing could prove cathartic again. His old therapist would be so _proud_. 

Except, when faced with the whiteness of a blank page, his mind came back to the dreams he’d been having, of the war that wasn’t quite his own. The dreams had been coming a lot more frequently these days. Almost every day now, he’d dream of not quite being himself, of an existence not quite his own, and of steady blue eyes that his subconscious seemed always to be drawn towards. 

If those dreams left John unsettled, meeting Lucas North—let alone forced to share living quarters with him like this—made him lightheaded, his blood rushing and his skin prickling in Lucas’s proximity. Feeling those eyes on him across the dining room the first night they were there sparked of a series of emotions too strong and complex and overwhelming, too ancient for his age, too large for his chest to contain. It wasn’t the same as the panic attacks he used to experience before he met Sherlock, it wasn’t nearly as unpleasant, but it was just as overwhelming. 

Lucas had looked at him with concern in his eyes that first night, eyes no doubt recognising the slight quivers in his hands. _Are you all right?_ , he’d asked, the timbre of his voice like a beacon pulling John closer. The man had placed a careful hand on John’s shoulder as he asked, and John gasped from the heat of his hand, like Lucas had branded him through the layers of shirt and sweater. John’s tremors increased tenfold, and Lucas seemed to decide he was in shock over the unusual situation he found himself in and practically herded him to his bed, his heated hand firm on the small of his back. 

John had fallen asleep that night exhausted from the alien emotions running through him. He dreamt of being held down by large, bruising hands, feeling his body breached, taken thoroughly, and all the while the him inside his dream could only keen for more. Deeper. _Claim me, my King…_ His eyes locked into the all-too-familiar blue eyes and he begged to be engulfed fully. 

The hands turned gentler then, gathering his body against the person’s larger one, holding him close. He could feel the man’s heartbeat beneath his ear and he felt so content he could cry. 

John woke up with a start, the corners of his eyes wet and his cock aching hard. He wiped at the wetness with the back of a hand while the other he shoved under his trousers to grab at his hardness. He started tugging and jerking, thumb pressing on his leaking slit, already desperate for release from the dream still in the forefront of his mind. His jerks were methodical, efficient, like he was back in the barracks, swallowing moans with a mouthful of pillow and hiding the fingers he pushed into himself from the rest of his regiment. He barely remembered to tug his trousers down before he came all over himself with a gasp and half of a foreign name. There’s a pang in his chest as he realized he couldn’t fully remember the name his dream self had moaned out so shamelessly. His eyes flew open as his mind stretched to the man in the room down the corridor, and John licked his lips, tentatively tasting out the name on his tongue.

‘Lucas…’ he whispered into the dimness of the room, his eyes locked towards the bedroom door, as if he could bore a hole all the way to Lucas’s. In his grip, his cock gave an interested twitch. 

Ever since that eventful first night, John had spent almost every night in the safe house dreaming of not being himself. So much so that he’d started to pick up on things—people and places—instead of just vague imagery and emotions.

He’s always the same person in those dreams. A part of a group of people. Soldiers. They’re comrades, familiar and supportive of each other. John could recall laughter and singing and _warmth_ from one of his dreams. They’re on a mission of some sort, John was still unsure what, but he was there to help them.

Images of members of the company flashed across his mind more often than not. The only constant thing was the quiet man with the eerie blue eyes. 

Lucas’s eyes. 

The dreams were occupying his head so much, that even as he sat down to try and put together the events in his real life in a tidy narrative, the things that he thought of remained consisting of wind on his face, towering mountains, and songs in ancient tongues that seemed to put warmth in his belly. 

Maybe he shouldn’t be so surprised, then, that he ended up writing about his dreams instead. 

-

He woke up one morning and Lucas was gone. 

That would’ve probably left John with a vague worry if not for the fact that he saw the man from his dreams last night, standing in the living room, peering at him through Lucas’s eyes. 

John recalled choking from so much longing bubbling up in him that he felt his knees go weak. When the man that wasn’t Lucas held him and his lips met his, John opened up under him embarrassingly quickly, meeting him stroke for stroke. They jerked apart when John felt a shift in the man’s touches, no longer full of surety from much practice. 

When he looked back up, it was Lucas North that was looking down at him, his chest heaving and his lips still glossy from saliva. He still looked unfairly appealing like that, but John didn’t feel like he had a claim on Lucas’s lips. Not when he was Lucas. 

So he retreated back, thinking it was for the best. Whatever it was that had just happened, they needed broad daylight to think it through. 

But broad daylight brought with it a polite young man with caramel eyes. _Ben_ , he introduced himself as. John couldn’t shake his hand properly. There were little tremors in his hands as his head kept showing him worst case scenarios that might happen to Lucas. From him requesting to change assignment for fear of personal involvement with someone under his care, to highly improbable ones concerning the man’s death.

 _He can’t be dead._ Another part of him reminded. _He was here last night still alive and well, you know that._

Ben saved him from panicking in the kitchen, telling him Lucas was needed back at the Grid, and he was there as the replacement until Lucas was back.

Being in the safe house without Lucas was… strange, to say the least. The three-bedroom house never felt as spacious before. John had gotten used to the strange pull that Lucas presence had on his insides, always making him hyperaware of where the man was in the house, his gaze like an exhalation on the back of his neck, making his skin prickle. The lost of that made John felt like he was losing his balance.

The dreams started anew in Lucas’s absence. Nightmares now, more than anything. John was unused to waking up with screams still ringing in his ears, his sheets soaking with sweat and dread gripping at his throat. He held off sleeping as much as he can the second night, but exhaustion crept at him unnoticed and he fell asleep on the couch, dreaming of fire and the sickening feel of loss, and when he woke up he could still feel the tang of blood on his tongue. Ben was there, jolted awake by his screams, apparently, his brows furrowing in concern. John knew he’d be beyond red from embarrassment by then, being woken up from a nightmare like a child.

Ben’s words were kind as he made sure John’s okay, but his skin was still clammy from cold sweat and he was mortified with himself. _I’m fine._ he said through gritted teeth, unnecessarily brusque. Something that looked like understanding lit up in Ben’s eyes as John pulled away from him. The look was still there in the morning when John came down to apologize. 

_Don’t worry about it, we all have those days,_ he said with a soft smile.

The third night was by far the worst. In his dreams, there was only black smoke and walls of fire surrounding him, the core of it bright and stinging for the eyes to see, hiding the darkness of the belly the fire came from. The fire shot through the air like waves, rising and falling and rising again, and the tiny hope his dream-self carried inside turned charred black. 

He anticipated the waves of fire sweeping through his body, but couldn’t for the life of him anticipate the sheer pain of it consuming him inside out. From behind the curtain of fire, a pair of bright golden, anguine eyes stared in rapture as he screamed and screamed. 

He distantly remembered thrashing on his bed, and then arms were around him, and this time it was a pair of familiar arms that John wanted to muffle his screams against. He was still shaking when he realized it was indeed Lucas on his bed, holding him close, his breath calming against his ear as he made gentle shushing sounds.

When Lucas pulled back, with a jolt John saw the flash of familiar eyes in his gaze, and knew he was safe. It felt like the most normal thing in the world to close his eyes and let his lips met Lucas’s. 

Lucas’s mouth was hot against his, the swipes of his tongue maddening, coaxing little whimpers from John’s shaking form.

He fell asleep that night with arms tight around his body, and when he sunk into his dream, he felt that same arms still around him, holding just as tight. Although his feet felt like they’re dangling in the air and when he looked over his shoulder he realized with dread his dream self was hanging off a steep cliff, with nothing beneath his dangling legs but dark chasm, and the only thing preventing him from falling was the hands around him. He looked up to see the face of the man he knew he could trust his life with.

Thorin. 

His King. 

When the company managed to drag his body away from the chasm, he felt weak to the bone from exhaustion. His dream self wondered if he was indeed suited to be with the company, and when Thorin looked at him, his eyes said he thought the same. 

It still felt like a stab straight through his chest. 

The edges of his dreams blurred and wavered, and the second time he could focus his eyes, he was on another battlefield. There was fire surrounding them, although this one didn’t feel as dark and as sinister as the licking flame he usually saw in the dreams. 

A pale creature, skin gleaming like a marbled tombstone under the night sky, was approaching them. That was when both John and his dream-self realized with dread that his King was on the ground, and he was who the pale creature was walking towards, its mouth opened in a grotesque imitation of a smile. A henchman was beside it and he didn’t have to know their tongue to learn of its intent when said henchman approached Thorin with a sword in its hand.

It was the bone-chilling dread that made his dream self leapt forward between the creature and Thorin’s prone form. John spared a smile inside his own head, a private joke of how he barely changed. John functioned well under pressure. Apparently that had always been the case. 

His dream self took a swing at the creature, again and again. His movements barely coordinated, and he’s clearly unskilled, but between the days they’ve spent on rolling hills and under enchanted night sky, the man lying on the ground had become his king, and he’d rather perish than watch him be harmed. 

The stabs he aimed on its belly were done with sure hands. Unflinching. He stood his ground between his King and the army of creatures and knew he’d never back down. There were flurries of movements, and then the rest of his companies were charging forward, striking at the monsters. 

A feeling in his gut told him they’d be okay, now. That he won’t lose his King. 

His King held him in his arms afterwards. It was the first time and he was filled with gratitude that his dream self had saved him, but John didn’t think he deserved the gratitude, saving him for purely selfish reasons of not wanting to lose him as he was. He dared to breathe a little deeper in Thorin’s arms, inhaling the smell of fresh earth and musk and wanting to curl up in the scent forever. 

He woke up still curled tightly against Lucas’s body and in a rush remembered everything, from seeing Thorin in the man’s eyes to the kiss, and for a split second he couldn’t breathe from the feeling of sheer _rightness_ of it all. 

The image of Thorin was still fresh in his mind though, so he reluctantly untangled himself from Lucas’s body and walked to his desk and started writing more of the valiant King of a lost kingdom, typing as fast as he could for fear of the soft tendrils of the dream leaving him before he could properly recorded everything.

-

 

**Thorin:**

Lucas didn’t know if he was allowed to touch John in broad daylight. Beneath the sunshine, he found himself treading lightly around the doctor, maintaining a polite distance. The other him inside couldn’t be said to be particularly pleased about that, and Lucas, who had felt John’s wet gasps under his mouth, was inclined to agree.

He found himself barely concentrating on the streams of information flowing from his assets that day, as he traced John’s quiet movements around the house. His eyes kept getting drawn towards the CCTV monitors, making sure he could see which room John’s in. And when the man was in the living room with him, he tracked John’s movements in his periphery. 

John’s steady steps walking by to go to the dining room, then the kitchen. The sound of a mug lifted off from the dryer. The kettle turned on and the soft hiss of the water beginning to boil. Lucas could picture it all without trying. The sound of the steps came back, and Lucas was distracted when he realized the reason of John’s soft footfall. He must be barefooted. For some absurd reason Lucas really, really wanted to turn around and watch him walking barefooted around the house, like he was comfortable enough in that place with Lucas that he’d do such a thing. 

He’s sure if he looked over now, he’d be able to see him as such. But he won’t. 

Lucas was too busy convincing both himself and the other him that he wouldn’t do such a thing that he missed John making his way towards his desk. His hand gave a little twitch as John leaned forward and peered into his monitors. 

‘What are those?’ he asked, eyes following the movement of the voice scanner Lucas had running. This close, he could see the curl of his fair eyelashes and a light dusting of freckles on his nose. When John’s face turned to him, Lucas wanted nothing more than to trace those freckles with his mouth. 

Instead, he smiled at John’s question and answered, simply, ‘Spook stuff,’

‘Naturally,’ John’s smile was sardonic, and absurdly it made Lucas wanted to kiss him. 

But the sun was peering through the blinds, and he wasn’t sure if his touch would be wanted, so he accepted the mug of tea John handed to him with a polite smile and watched the doctor—pale bare feet and all—walked out of the room again. 

-

That night he dreamt of flashes of flushed, pale skin and hazel eyes, pupils dilating in lust, and woke up with a hard-on, his first one since too long ago in Russia. 

He fisted himself and took care of business in easy, efficient strokes, feeling like he was entirely too old for this as he came all over his stomach. 

He didn’t let himself moan any name.

-

Morning again. John and Lucas kept their polite distance again as Lucas cooked them ham and eggs and John made them tea. Their fingers met as they traded plates and mugs and they both pretended nothing had happened. But John watched him over the newspaper he pretended to read. Lucas knew since he was watching him back, surreptitiously, while trying to make sense of the messages he’d received in his mobile. 

Malcolm rang him sometime during the day as a link popped up on his screen.

_‘Harry said you must see this, you’ll learn more than we do,’_

‘Got it.’

He clicked on the link, and it led him to a video. He checked the preliminary data they had on it while his media player opened, but they didn’t seem to know much about it. The video came out of an encrypted memory stick from one of their Kazan assets, found dead in a skip two days before. 

When the media player started, it showed him a dimly lit room, exactly five by five meters in width, and Lucas knew the room was freezing cold. 

The marks on the walls and the rusty pipe lining up one side of the room were as familiar as if he’d just walked in to one of his nightmares. He knew he’d been there. That was _the_ solitary confinement cell. 

He could feel his heart pounding fast inside his chest, sluicing his veins with rushing blood, making his head felt light. 

_You must see this._ Malcolm voice said in his head. _You’ll learn more than us._

Right. He could do it.

He folded his trembling hands in front of him as his eyes, getting used to the grainy darkness of the video, made out the outline of a man on the all-too-familiar chair in the middle of the room, blindfolded, hands bound. 

Another person was standing slightly out of the camera’s view, talking in rapid-fire Russian. Lucas committed the words, questions and accusations, to memory to pick apart later as he was sure Harry would want him to. He forced his eyes to stay glued onto the screen, memorizing everything the captive man spilled in an increasingly distressed voice. He didn’t spill much. Lucas didn’t know if it was because he genuinely didn’t know much or if he was still doing as he had been ordered, even in that dark place away from the world. The man’s Russian deteriorated under duress, his accent sounding more and more stilted as he pleaded. 

Lucas didn’t avert his eyes even when the screaming started. 

-

Afterwards, Lucas made his way almost entirely without thinking up the stairs to the bathroom and emptied his breakfast into the toilet. And he kept retching until he was just throwing up bile and acid. His head was pounding and everything from his old scars to his once-dislocated shoulder felt raw and aching. 

He half-dragged himself until he was in the shower, turning the tap and shucking off his clothes as they soaked under the stream. Everything felt disgusting. 

Lucas let the water soak him, hoping it’ll help with the tender feeling of his scars. He turned his head up towards the showerhead and that’s when it hit him. The harsh stream of water on his face triggered _that_ memory in him, leaving him feeling suffocated. Gasping for breath. Without realizing, he’s back in that interrogation room, covered in sackcloth and having water poured down his throat. 

He could feel his feet weakening and he grabbed at the shower stall to steady himself. The metal gave under his grip with a sickening clanging sounds and Lucas could only remember the blow of steel pipes against his body as he fell to the ground.

Vaguely, he heard a flutter of movement from the door before John burst through. He only halted for a split second before his apparent medical— _military_ medical—background pushed forward as he closed the tap and dragged Lucas’s significantly larger body out of the bathroom.

Halfway down the corridor, Lucas could start to feel his limbs again, and he staggered towards his bed with just a portion of his weight placed on the man Lucas was currently half-draped against. John deposited him onto the bed with a grunt and little finesse before coming out of the room again.

Lucas kept his eyes closed as he lay in bed, his head still spinning and making him nauseous. He tried to concentrate on evening his breath, in and out, in and out, slowly, and it helped with the tremors a little. 

John came back carrying a first-aid kit, and started applying heparin salves on the bruises on his legs from the fall. He clucked his tongue at a particularly nasty bruise around his ankle, but his hands were gentle as he rubbed in the salve.

Lucas could feel his heartbeat returning to normal as he laid there, letting John tended his little wounds. When you’ve risked your life for the job multiple times and been left battered to death once, the amount of careful attention John gave his superficial cuts seemed almost preposterous. He wanted to tell the doctor he was perfectly fine, that he’d been through much worse, but John’s hands were warm on his aching skin, and his steady presence made breathing that much easier.

Lucas turned to look at him as the doctor placed a bandage on a cut on his shoulder, and when John raised his head, their faces were inches away. 

His curtains were drawn open and the sun still shined through them, but he’s close enough that he could count the individual lashes around John’s hazel eyes. He wondered again if he’s allowed to kiss him when they’re not surrounded by darkness. 

It was John who closed the gap between them. 

His lips when they met his was slightly tentative, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed, but Lucas lifted a hand and cradled the side of his face, angling it _just so_ before he swiped his tongue along the plumpness of John’s lower lips, feeling the man open up with a soft sigh that Lucas greedily inhaled. 

They traded wet, open-mouthed kisses that made Lucas’s skin prickle before he placed a hand around John’s waist and maneuvered him closer until he was on the bed on top of him, moaning as Lucas sucked his tongue in. 

Lucas couldn’t help but hiss a bit as John’s elbow dug into a bruise on his ribs and he pulled back as if scalded. 

‘Wait. Wait. You’re hurt.’ John said, trying to scramble off the bed. Lucas held him with a firm hand on his hip as his other hand carded itself through John’s hair, kneading his nape, pulling his face back down. 

‘I’ve been worse,’ he said against John’s mouth. John had _not impressed_ written on his face as he heard that.

‘That’s not an excuse. Besides, you’ve just had a panic attack.’ 

_So were you the first time I shoved my tongue down your throat._ Lucas thought. He didn’t voice that out, though.

He looked at the determined face on top of him and sighed. 

‘You need to rest.’ John said firmly.

Lucas stared at his brilliant eyes, the muscles in his body completely relaxed under the weight of the man and suddenly felt tired enough that he wanted nothing more than to burrow himself into John’s warmth. 

‘Will you stay?’ he asked.

‘Of course.’ 

Lucas barely realized he was still completely naked until he saw John blushed while trying to pull the duvet over his body. He cheeks were still red as he toed off his shoes and slipped his belt off. His fingers hesitated on the zip of his jeans, his blush now travelling down his neck and up to the tips of his ears. He shook his head a little and muttered ‘to hell with it’ under his breath before pushing his jeans down and shucking his sweater off his head in quick succession. 

When John slipped under the comforter, Lucas found himself drawn towards the warmth his body radiated and maneuvered their bodies until he had his arms secured around John’s body, the curve of his back a complete fit against his chest.

“Is this okay?” he whispered against the man’s still reddened ear, and took pleasure when he felt John shivered. 

‘S’fine.’ John whispered back.

Lucas fell asleep inhaling the heady scent of John’s nape. 

-

 

**Bilbo:**

When John opened his eyes, the room was dark. He felt disoriented as he took in the different furniture, the way the bed was placed adjacent to the window. 

Oh right. He was in Lucas’s room. 

John turned around and saw the other side of the bed was empty. He felt a little pang in his chest and was about to climb down the bed, but that was when he noticed.

Lucas was lying supine on the floor, and he was sleeping like it was the most normal thing in the world. He was also still completely naked, and any other time John would’ve happily snuck a glance, but the man was _lying on the floor naked._ He’d get sick, like that.

John yanked the comforter off the bed and placed it on top of Lucas’s body. The man’s eyes fluttered open and that and his still startling blue eyes locked with John’s gaze. 

‘I sleep better like this, sometimes,’ he whispered to John without being asked, and there was tiredness in his voice that made something clench in John’s chest. 

‘At least use the duvet, there’s always weakened immune system, viruses and pneumonias to worry about.’ John said. Lucas smiled thinly. 

Without thinking, John walked towards him and pulled the comforter up, settling his body against Lucas’s. John could feel Lucas’s eyes on him, and when he raised his eyes there was wonder in the man’s face. But if he had questions for John, John would have no answers to give him besides _this felt right_ , so he just burrowed closer to Lucas. He could feel the hard muscles in Lucas’s body relaxing slightly after a while.

‘Can I tell you a story?’ John said in a whisper. He felt rather than saw Lucas tilting his head at that.

‘Sure,’ he said.

John looked up into those blue eyes—into the familiarity of their depths—and took a deep breath. Words came tumbling out of his lips before his nerves deserted him.

‘There was this person I felt like I knew a lifetime ago. Several lifetimes ago.’ John started. 

‘His name was Thorin,’ John whispered the name softly against Lucas’s clavicle, like he was afraid it’d slip out of his grasp if mentioned carelessly.

‘I think I know of this person you speak of,’ 

John smiled at that, something like relief, like gratitude for Lucas’s understanding bubbled up from inside his stomach, making his mouth dry. 

‘I’m sure you do.’

‘Do you remember much? About Thorin?’ 

_I remember loving him,_ John didn’t say. 

Instead, he tried to string together what he remembered of the man that had so thoroughly occupied his subconscious into a vaguely coherent story he could tell Lucas. 

Lucas fell asleep to the soft whispers of John’s voice painting skies in vibrant azure and lush earth beneath feet and of journeys through lakes and mountains, commanded by an unbroken King wielding his mighty sword. 

The man unconsciously pulled John’s body closer still as he drifted to sleep, and they both fell asleep curled around each other’s body, like puzzle pieces fitting perfectly.

 

**End Part Two.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the people that decided to give this fic a try and read/kudosed/bookmarked this fic. Can’t thank you enough
> 
> Anyway, please do drop me a line and tell me what you think.
> 
> Also, for anybody else who wants to try their hands on this prompt or this ship (reincarnation or not), please by all means do it. Just pray, tell me about it, since I’m dying to read this bunny too :3
> 
> For banners (and John’s damn _face_ ) [go here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/770442/chapters/1465591)


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